Her Hero
by Orlando Hope
Summary: Companion to my His Heroine. How does Shannon cope with Boone's death--and the part she played in his murder?


Title: Her Hero

Author: Zeldabel, Zelda Loves Charlie, Orlando Hope

Warning: Violence

Rating: PG-13

Dedication: To Vicki08 and ChesireCat 666, who so loved my His Heroine. This one is for you (and Boone).

Legal Notice: Naturally, these characters do not belong to me. After studying and writing about these two beloved characters, however, I can safely say Boone belonged to Shannon.

Summary: This is a companion piece to my beloved "His Heroine." How does Shannon cope with Boone's death? And how can she forgive herself for being responsible for his murder?

**Her Hero**

"_He has a way that surrounds him  
So delicate  
With a glory that reigns in his life  
He is also so much that he is not  
These things they don't see  
And she doesn't see him_

_When she passes him by  
She's a ray of light  
Like the first drop of sun  
From the sky  
And he knows she's a queen  
Who deserves a king  
Someone other than him  
Different from him_

She doesn't see him  
She doesn't see him"

---Sarah Brightman

Looking back, Shannon Rutherford realized Boone had always been her hero.

Growing up, he'd done the typical big-brother stuff: playing Monopoly when the adults were busy, yelling at boys who teased her, drying her tears when she tore a hole in her Easter stockings. Of course, he'd also pulled her hair, told on her when he found out she'd slept with Justin Granger after the homecoming dance, and had been the one who caused her to tear her new stockings in the first place.

Though his body had developed and matured, Boone had retained a puppyish simplicity.

Though he was sweet and kind, adorable and wealthy, all Boone Carlisle really wanted was Shannon. More specifically, he wanted Shannon to be happy. A word from her, and Boone flew from L.A., where he was probably being worshipped by one of the dozens of beach bimbos who fell for his sweet smile, to Sydney, throwing himself headfirst into another Shannon drama. He'd left home—comfort and safety—to play her hero. And she'd never thanked him. Never thanked him for leaving another girl, someone who would have loved to spend a lifetime snuggling and adoring Boone, to ride to the aid of his little sister. And though innocent, Boone knew what he was getting himself into. He knew Shannon, though she had been the one who'd sent out the distress signal, wouldn't welcome him to Sydney with open arms. Boone, knowing Shannon, always knew he had to scratch and claw for every bit of attention Shannon threw his way.

Shannon's stomach was churning; had been for days. The survivors were torn between jubilation (If Charlie sang "Puff, the Magic Dragon" to Claire's damn rug rat one more time, Shannon was primed and ready to shove a coconut so far up Charlie's butt milk would pour from his nostrils), and grief. Sun, though she cooed and tugged at the baby's fat pink toes, was especially melancholic. Jack had told Shannon how hard Sun worked to save Boone's life. And Jack…Well Jack, so picture perfect and sensible, and literally opened a vein for her brother.

Jack and Shannon were the only ones who'd yet to hold the baby. Everyone else begged Claire and Charlie for just a second to cuddle with little Donovan, longed to smell his sweet, milky breath and hold something so throbbing with life and vitality. For people so familiar with death and carnage, Donovan represented hope and a future.

But for Shannon, it was stolen hope. Donovan's life, the very air he breathed, belonged to Boone. Her brother had died, yet this baby, this baby even Claire admitted not wanting, lived. He had taken Boone's place on the island, on the planet. John Locke, who hadn't been sighted since Boone's death, lived. John Locke, who had offered sweet Boone as a living sacrifice to the Hatch Gods, was immersed in his own walkabout. He'd told Boone not to tell what they'd been doing in the jungle, counted on Boone's naiveté to keep the secret.

Yet Boone had told Shannon.

And, moments before his death, Boone had told Jack.

Moments before he had been murdered, Shannon corrected herself. Boone hadn't simply died. He wasn't a crotchety old man, surrounded by shiny-eyed great-grandchildren and this third trophy wife. It wasn't cancer or a car accident or even something trendy like AIDS or that flesh-eating virus. Boone hadn't even reached his thirtieth birthday. He'd died broken and torn, the night air thick with his screams and the stench of blood. Jack had said Boone died with Shannon's name heavy on his swollen lips. Meanwhile, she'd been doing what she did best, worming her way into another man's life, relying on someone bigger and older to protect her. And, as she had also always done, she had trashed Boone. She remembered telling Sayid, just like she had told Brian and Andrew and fuckin' Peter in elementary school, how much Boone loved her.

And how much she didn't love him back.

Shannon broke into a run, desperate to erase Boone's image from her mind. She passed Kate and Jack, both who looked serious and sad, felt their gaze upon her as she flew past. She heard Charlie singing to little Donovan, and resisted the urge to kick sand in both their faces. She ran blindly across the sand, running from not only Boone's memory, trying to erase the image of his bloody corpse lying rigid on the grass, but from herself. Shannon wanted to outrun herself, to forget about ever being Shannon Rutherford. To forget how deeply she had been loved, loved to the point of obsession by a broken, lovely boy.

She ran into the jungle, barely feeling the tree limbs scratch and tear her tanned skin. She had to forget. Had to forget the little boy who'd held her hand when their parents had screamed and raged at each other, forget the loving man who'd held her hand as she struggled for breath.

Oh, God! Her asthma! Boone…Boone had been her hero. He'd always cuddled her during asthma attacks. She could still feel his muscular arms wrapped around her, feel the solid wall of his chest pressing into her back. "Feel me breathe," he's whisper. "Imagine your lungs filling up with air. Feel my chest, Shann. Breathe with me." How could she breathe without Boone? How could anyone live on a planet without Boone Carlisle? Shannon didn't understand. Boone was dead, yet Hurley was hungry. Sayid watched her with hungry, seductive eyes. Michael worked on the raft, the waves crashed against the shore, daylight faded into night.

All without Boone.

Running blindly, Shannon found herself, whether by chance or by circumstance, near the grassy knoll where she and Boone had made love so many weeks ago. Falling to her knees and pressing her face against the dirt, Shannon swore she could smell Boone's earthy, spicy scent. She smiled despite herself, remembering how she'd told Boone he'd smelled like dirt. The look on his face, somewhere between passion and disbelief, had been priceless.

"Shannon?"

Shannon jerked up, all senses heightened and alert. She knew it was impossible, yet she also knew what she had just heard. Boone. She'd heard Boone calling her name.

"_Shannon, please…" _

"_Please what, Boone? Please nuzzle my neck? I can do that," she dropped her head and planted hot, searing kisses on his sweaty neck. She felt a thrill of adrenaline_

_at his soft groan. "Please hold me? I can do that, too." She slid her arms around his neck, drawing his downy head onto her shoulder. "Please make love to me? Ah, sweet Boone, I can do that, too."_

"Boone!" Shannon screamed. Burning tears steamed down her face, leaving hot, scalding track marks down her cheeks and neck. It had to stop—she had to get rid of this gaping chasm in her soul, the soul which had been so full of Boone. She couldn't bear to remember.

"_I am nothing, and no one, without you. You are everything that is good about me. Any innocence, any human kindness inside me, is all because of you. Without you, I wouldn't survive." She stopped, drawing in a sharp breath. "I love you, Boone." _

"SHUT UP!" Shannon screamed, desperate to halt the voices in her head. The air was thick with scents and voices, memories and demons. She clasped her hands over her ears, screaming till she felt her throat tear. She screamed and sobbed until her asthmatic chest was screaming for oxygen, until thick, black bile poured over her cracked lips. She slapped herself hard across the face, clawed at her throat, poked a sharp branch into the bulging blue veins in her wrists.

Yet the voices continued.

It was hours later when Michael found her, lying in a pool of blood and vomit, her arms wrapped around the tree.


End file.
